Just lob a brick
by Laelwen
Summary: What if Voldemort had recognised that it was only his magic that didn't function well against the 'Brat who Lived?


**A/N**: Inspired by this quote in "The Golemn's Eye".

"_You're thinking of doing __something__; I can hear it in your voice. Well, don't. I won't bother using a magical attack. I've been around, you know. I'm well aware of your defences. I've seen it all before. I'll just lob a brick at you."_

**Disclaimer:**

I own nothing of either the Bartimaeus Trilogy or Harry Potter. All credit goes to Jonathan Stroud and J.K Rowling respectively. I am just playing with the wonderful characters and words of their worlds.

**Summary:**

What if Voldemort had recognised that it was only his magic that didn't function well against the 'Brat who Lived'?

* * *

><p><strong>"Just lob a brick"<strong>

Voldemort was bored.

He was also frustrated.

It was not a healthy combination for those in his immediate vicinity because usually this called for an invigorating bout of the Cruciatus. On a prisoner, perhaps, or on a Death Eater if they'd been incompetent enough. (Which they always were).

But while Voldemort wasn't keen on learning from past experiences even he had to admit, after the thousand and twenty second time, that random torture wasn't a cheery way to pass the time.

It was a common misconception that Voldemort liked living in a persistent state of gloom and depression. Possibly it was because his clothes were always black. Possibly it was because he lived in an underground, damp fortress with too few fires and chairs and an overabundance of slime. Or possibly it was because he was one of the darkest Dark Lords in the whole history of being Dark.

But in truth Voldemort liked being as comfortable as the next person, always assuming the next person wasn't Snape. And as stated, he was experiencing an intimidating mixture of 'bored' and 'annoyed'. Waiting for your snatchers to nab Potter while he systematically destroyed your horcruxes would do that to you.

He decided to reflect on that for a bit.

It occurred to him that he could visit Hogwarts (Snape was always so pleased to see him) and retrieve his diadem. Potter seemed to know where the rest were...

He dismissed the silly thought.

Instead, he decided to indulge in an exercise he hadn't practiced since he'd been twenty eight at that little store in Knockturn Alley and been bored enough (customers had been few that week) to read 'The Lord of the Rings'. He decided to read muggle literature. Beedle the Bard's tales could only entertain one so long.

He had access to a computer. It was a good computer because he was Voldemort and he didn't mind being hypocritical. He decided to enter a search for 'Magic Fantasy Book' (which came up with a list) and because Dark Lords didn't mind not paying an author for their work or time he simply searched for an interesting blurb and downloaded it via Pdf.

It was 'The Amulet of Samarkand' he eventually decided to download because he liked the idea of wizards ruling London and the muggles (and indeed the idea of British wizards dominating Europe). He finished the entire series in one night, was left with a splitting headache from too much computer reading, and went to bed feeling exhausted.

He'd snickered his way through the Underwood description of course. But there was food for serious thought there too.

"_I won't bother using a magical attack...I'm well aware of your defences ... I'll just lob a brick at you."_

Most definitely that plan deserved some consideration.

ooooo

_Two Weeks Later..._

There were times, Harry Potter reflected, where life was absolutely tacky. This had to be one of them.

Voldemort hadn't pulled out the necessary AK in the forest. Which kind of sucked, given that Harry now knew he had a piece of Voldemort's soul stuck inside him. Which had to be removed by said Dark Lord in person.

But no. That'd be too convenient of him, wouldn't it? Voldemort had muttered an incarcerous (non-verbally: Harry hadn't dodged because he'd been expecting an AK) and was hefting a... was that a rock he was conjuring? Nope. Too rectangular. It caught the moonlight, a sort of rough reddish brown. It was, unmistakably, a brick.

Now as Harry, while no Crabbe or Goyle, was nevertheless no great reader, he didn't understand the significance. He did, however understand that when heavy objects collided with certain parts of the physical anatomy one was in trouble.

He did the only thing he could think of. He gulped.

The brick fell two meters short.

Voldemort scowled, flexing spidery fingers and spindly arms. He seemed to be considering something, and nodded to himself after a moment or two. The Death Eaters whose faces were visible looked vaguely uncertain.

Voldemort flicked his wand at the brick, levitating it about twenty meters above Harry's head. There was only one spot that could hit when it fell. And Harry decided that, screw tacky, life really, really, really sucked.

ooooo

_A while later..._

Voldemort ruled Britain for all of one week before he got bored of the chaos and revels (Muggle and muggleborn hunting was only fun if you were trying to avoid getting caught by Aurors). He was, in fact, so bored he exhausted his entire supply of preferred muggle literature. Then Tom Riddle (with the help of a few well placed illusions) returned from overseas, fought Voldemort (and his more extreme Death Eaters) in an epic duel to the death, and was promptly elected Minister for Magic.

And all was well.


End file.
